


There's Not Much Left

by Still_beating_heart



Series: There's Not Much Left [1]
Category: Animal Kingdom (TV)
Genre: All the tags that come with this ship, All the tags that come with this show, Canon Triggers Apply, If you are triggered by things in this show then don't read this, M/M, Married Deran Cody/Adrian Dolan, Post-Season/Series 04, Reunited by chapter four, Smurf might be dead but she is still Deran's mother, canon warnings apply, post 4x13, that needs to be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Post 4x13, a little pain, a lot of love, and a happy ending.----------So there’s this. A home. A real one. Walk to work. Walk to surf. A shower.A smile. Smiles that are never restrained anymore. Smiles that are abundant. Laughs that echo around the yard with the high fence and the banana trees.There’s love. So much goddamn love it’s disgusting.There’s happiness. True happiness.And there’s a man. The most incredible man Deran has ever known. A man who Deran is certain he doesn’t deserve. But he’s getting there.There’s not much left. Of that old life. Of the past hurts. Of the buried secrets.There’s not much left. But a future.--------
Relationships: Deran Cody & Adrian Dolan, Deran Cody/Adrian Dolan
Series: There's Not Much Left [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885414
Comments: 17
Kudos: 76
Collections: Animal Kingdom ▶ Deran Cody / Adrian Dolan





	1. But A Memory

**Author's Note:**

> After the break-up. The show's warnings and subject matter applies. Beyond that, there's some undertones of a non-con experience. There's a whole shit-ton of self-destructive behavior but I think it's fair since they both kinda (Deran definitely, Adrian maybe a little) do that anyway and they'd both certainly be doing that in this situation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not much left. But a memory.

But A Memory

There’s not much left. There’s a pink t-shirt. The one he was wearing the last time they surfed and smiled. The last time they were carefree. Before all the lies. That worn out pink t-shirt. It must have been Craig’s at some point. Too wide. Too worn-out. Too pink for Deran. 

The place is airy. Quiet. The bed is four-poster. With a sheer curtain draped over top. The ceiling is vaulted. The fan is spinning. The air is heavy.

The doors open easy. They don’t squeak. Not the way the one at home did. The pool is small. It’s decked with wooden boards. Surrounded by banana trees and a high wooden fence to keep the neighbors from seeing inside. Two blue chairs sit side by side. Empty.

There’s not much left.

Adrian never closes the door. There’s no reason. The gate is closed. It’s always closed. 

The bathroom is outdoors. Two sinks standing side by side. A freestanding tub. A tiled shower. The walls are high. They’re white. 

There’s not much left.

The kitchen. It’s small. Too small for someone like Deran. Deran who likes to clatter through all the pots and pans in the house at all hours of the morning just to find the one pan, the only pan he ever uses, the one pan he probably left in the dish strainer. But he has to check every cabinet first.

The air is too heavy. The green is too green.

The surfboards are lined up in a rack beside the wall outside the front door. The front door is blue. Turquoise. The walkway is stepping stones. More wooden fence. Cobblestones for a parking area. 

Walk to surf.

Walk to work.

There’s not much left.

There’s food in the fridge. 

There was a job interview at a resort. It wasn’t hard to get the position. Teach tourists to surf. It’s not hard to teach tourists to surf. Not hard to pretend they’re doing a good job. When they're not.

The sun is too hot. The sunscreen is never enough. The shoulders are burned. The freckles are more than the rest of the skin.

The hair is less auburn and more strawberry. 

The men are easy.

The sex is easy. 

There’s not much left. 

There’s a fan that spins lazily above the bed on the vaulted wooden ceiling. The fan that Adrian stares at all night long some nights. Some nights when there’s a man in his bed. A man who’s name he didn’t bother committing to memory. A man who’s life story he didn’t bother to learn. A man who’s language was never enough. A spoken language. Not the language that Deran knew. The one that used a lot of silence. A lot of blue. A lot of skin. Deran’s language. Your language. 

There’s a pink shirt. Strewn over the live-edge bar-top. It doesn’t smell like Deran anymore. It smells like sun. And sweat. And sunscreen. An ocean. But not the ocean. Not your ocean. It doesn’t smell like Deran anymore.

There’s a stack of cash. In a small safe. The combo is Adrian’s birthday. He knew it would be. Another thing spoken in the language of silence. 

The air is too thick. The tourists are too stupid. The resort is too bright. The place is too clean. The beer is too warm. The weed is too potent.

Potent is what Adrian needs. It slows. It all slows. He lies in the middle of the bed. He only ever slept on Deran’s right because Deran couldn’t sleep on his left shoulder. Ever since he was eighteen and he fucked up his rotator cuff. Doing something stupid. 

He watches the smoke roll from his lips. Dance above him. Sway with the lame breeze of the ceiling fan. The fan that’s on high. There’s air conditioning. But he doesn’t use it. 

He watches it twirl, rise. Dissipate.

There’s not much left. 

There’s the way the pool reflects the night onto the walls in the bedroom. There’s the way the tub has never been used. Because Adrian knows it was meant for two. There’s the way the kitchen has never been used. Not for anything more than coffee. Toast. A bowl of fruit. He eats at the resort for free. But the kitchen was Deran’s. Even if his fingerprints aren’t on the countertop. Even if his favorite pan isn’t in the strainer. There isn’t a towel tied around the handle of the fridge. 

There are no ashtrays. 

There are no bruises. No fingertip shaped bruises encircling Adrian’s hips. The last guy. He told him to hold on tighter. To hold on like his life depended on it. And there was nothing. He wakes some mornings after not sleeping. He wakes those mornings still staring at the ceiling fan. Fingers pushing against his flesh. Hoping to have that dull ache beneath his skin. That dull ache that only meant one thing. That dull lingering ache that only meant he was holding onto Adrian like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

There’s not much left. 

There’s a pink shirt. A faded pink t-shirt. And a Gorkin flip. There’s a memory of a smile. A memory of an offer. A memory of a laugh.  
There’s a stack of cash. Locked up. A stack of cash. In a safe.

There’s a pool. A pool where Adrian floats on his days off. Getting wasted in the sun. Letting his skin burn until it blisters. Hoping he’ll feel it. That one day he’ll feel it. 

There are two blue chairs. No one has ever sat in them. 

He wakes some mornings. With the skin sending a burning memory through his body. A memory of the missing arms. The missing hands. There’s no one watching him sleep at night while he smokes a cig and pretends he’s not watching Adrian sleep. 

There’s not much left. 

Sand embedded in the corners of his toenails. Salt in his hair. Red skin and freckles. Empty beer bottles. 

There’s a burner phone. Locked in the safe. With the stack of cash. 

There are tourists. Strangers. Names he didn’t commit to memory. Words he didn’t commit to memory. And ‘I just want us to be okay’. And ‘you’re the worst thing that ever happened to me’. And there’s more than that. But there’s not much left.

There’s not much left when he passes out face down on the middle of the bed. Too drunk and too stoned and whatever tourist came home with him won’t be getting the reward for all the drinks they bought him and the fat tip they left him after their private surf lesson. 

There’s not much left. A pounding in his head. An aching in his body. 

A burner phone that rings sometimes. Locked in a safe with a stack of cash. And a gun. 

There’s a door that is blue. It’s turquoise. There are stepping stones through a yard with too much green. And too much humidity. And too much heat. And too much sun.

There’s an unrelenting pain. A useless ache. Every night. Every night. An ache he can’t surf away. And he can’t fuck away. And he can’t drink away. And he can’t smoke away.

There’s a pool. There’s a blue pillow. There’s a painting of a pineapple on the wall. There are curtains that are never closed. There is a fan that is never off. There is a heaviness in the air that’ll never go away.

There’s not much left. There’s a splash of dried blood on the corner of the rough-cut counter-top where Adrian fell. Last weekend. Too drunk. And too high. And too much of a stranger. And a flip-flop in the wrong place. And a knot on his head when he woke up in the morning. A dry mouth. An ache. An ache that couldn’t be shrugged off. 

There’s not much left. But that stack of cash. A few bills go to pay for the cab. To go to the clinic. 

That’s the end. It’s the end of that. Of the too much. The too much booze. And the too much weed. And the too much drugs. And the too much fuzz. That's the end of the too much.

But when it’s not too much it’s only too little. It’s a pink shirt. A stack of cash. A gun. A burner phone that stopped ringing. 

There’s a job. Surf lessons. But no surfing. No real surfing. Nothing he can anymore. Because every wave is a memory. 

He wouldn’t shower. Deran. When he was depressed. It was the first sign. It was always the first sign. He’d stop showering. And Adrian would try to get him to surf. And he wouldn’t surf. Adrian would try to get him to play video games. And he wouldn’t get out of bed. So Adrian would sit with him. And stay silent. And watch the sheet move with his breathing. Then he’d be skating or surfing or jumping off a cliff the next time he left Smurf’s house. Like nothing ever happened. 

There’s too much green. There’s too much blue. There’s too much white.

The shower is too big. The tub has never been used. 

There’s too much light.

There’s a pink shirt. It’s tugged over Adrian’s head one morning. It smells like sweat. And sun. And sand. And salt.

It smells like Deran.

And it stings. It burns behind his eyes and rips a hole in his chest. He loses his knees. He loses his tears. He loses his numbness. The floor is wood. The ceiling is vaulted. The fan won’t stop spinning and the tears won’t stop falling. The breeze is heavy. The air is damp. The ocean is salty. The day is growing dark. Turning into night. Another night. Another night in a big bed. Too big. And too empty. And too much and too little. Too everything and too nothing.

He wakes up on the floor. Curled into a ball with his hands fisted in the shirt against his heart. Wishing it was Deran’s heart under his knuckles. 

There isn’t much left. A worn-out pink shirt.

A house. Walk to work. Walk to surf. 

A safe. With a stack of cash. A gun.

The combo is Adrian’s birthday. Of course it is. 

His hands are shaking. The door is open. The gun is right there. His eyes are cloudy. His head is spinning. His stomach is quivering. 

There’s not much left.

But a burner phone. A buzzing noise. A ring. A light. 

He watches his hand dart into the safe. For the gun. Or the phone. Or the cash. 

The phone is buzzing. The gun is a craving. The cash is nothing. The gun is a way out. The phone is buzzing. The cash is a way in. The gun is a way out. The phone is a way to breathe. 

His hand is shaking. His voice is shaking. Nothing comes out when he puts the phone to his ear. Nothing comes out. But a choked, strangled cry. And tears.

“Adrian?”

The phone is a lifeline. The tears won’t stop. The body won’t breathe. The choked cries won’t silence.

It’s silence. It’s wind. It’s gasped words that don’t make any sense. It’s his name in his ear. It’s a voice that’s lived in his head since preschool. Since preschool when he told him he hated his orange shirt. 

There’s not much left. A pink shirt. And some tears in his eyes that he’s certain can’t cry anymore. 

There’s not much left. But some breathing on the phone. On the other side of the call. The wind. The wind on the phone. The wind off the ocean. Whistling through the phone line.

There’s not much left. But a stack of cash. A gun. An empty house. 

His eyes close at the sound of his name. His name.

His eyes open at the sound of a breath. His breath.

HIs eyes focus on something in the safe. Something that was under the phone. Was under the phone for all these months. His breath catches again and his heart hurls itself at his ribcage. His fingers trembling. Reaching out. Gliding over the wavy edge of a Belize one cent coin.

There’s not much left. But his name over a phone line. A burner phone. A pink shirt. A stack of cash. A house. Walk to work. Walk to surf. A gun. An empty bed. An empty kitchen. An empty pool. An empty tub. Stepping stones. Cobblestones. Two blue chairs. Sheer curtains. A painting of a pineapple. 

A pink shirt. A Belize one cent.

A voice on the phone.

A breath on the phone. 

His name on the tongue that’s travelled every inch of his flesh.

His hand closing around a coin. 

A memory.

There’s not much left.

But a memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the pink shirt was only on Deran for like a whole ten seconds before he took it off but it's the only t-shirt he's worn that's different enough to be memorable.


	2. But It Can Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's too much left. But it can wait.

But It Can Wait

There’s too much left. There’s too much left if he leaves it behind. 

There are tears shed on a dock. As the taillights disappear. There’s an ache, a pain, a ripping and tearing in his chest. There’s a pain that won’t stop. It can’t be cried out. It can’t be cursed out. It can’t be run away from.

There’s too much left. If he leaves it behind.

There’s Craig. And a conversation. That’s more tears and grunted one word sentences that burn, “Adrian?”

“Gone.”

There’s Craig. And there’s a few minutes sitting on rocks outside his house. Baz’s house. Or maybe a few hours. As their legs go numb. And the salt off the ocean mingles with the salt on his cheeks. 

There’s Craig. And a girlfriend. With a baby. And neither of them are the picture of stability. And there’s a baby now. A baby that will need to be cared for when his parents OD. Or take off to Vegas. There’s Craig. And it’ll always hold that Deran is terrified of the day he finds him dead. But if Deran leaves it all behind then who will find them dead? Who will find them dead when they both OD? And there’s a baby to care for. 

There’s too much left. 

There’s Pope. Who would do things differently if he could. But he’ll never be able to take care of himself. He’ll never be able to do things differently. He’ll never be able to go back. There’s Pope. And Angela. Angela who can’t be trusted. Angela who has some kind of a play here. Even if Deran isn’t certain what it is, he knows it’s there.

There’s Pope and the big empty house. With all the echoes. With all the ghosts. With all the faded memories like a candle in a dusty bar attic. 

There’s too much left. To be left behind.

There’s J. There’s J holding all the cards. Holding all the knowledge. There’s J. And J can’t be trusted. Even if he is family. 

There’s too much left.

There’s Smurf. Reduced to a box of ash. Her body is gone. Her voice can never be. It’ll always be there. In Deran’s ear. For the rest of his life. Her voice, knowing his greatest fear, ‘you’re just like me baby’. 

There’s Smurf. And a big empty house. Full of echoes. Full of ghosts. Full of memories that he can’t remember but he can’t forget. 

There’s too much left. There’s too much left if he leaves it behind.

There’s Billy. There’s Billy and his lame apology of a twelve step program. And his stack of cash that’s shy. A lot shy. And an apology will never mean a thing if it doesn’t cost. Will it? There’s Billy and how long would it take before he was weaseling his way back in? 

There are the threats. From outside too. The preppers. Other crews in Oceanside. Crews that take more than they give. Crews that exploit the weak for their own gain. 

There are renters. The renters in the buildings that pay next to nothing. Next to nothing for the roof over their head. Renters that only have a roof over their head because Smurf let them. Because she let them have the roof over their head to launder the cash for the family business. There are renters that need the roof over their head. 

There’s a bar. A bar that can’t run itself. A bar that Deran can’t stand to be in. He can’t stand to be in anymore. A bar he loved. A bar that was supposed to be his freedom. A bar that was supposed to be his future. But his future is gone. And everywhere he turns it’s his smile or his voice or his presence. He’s sitting at the table catching up and admitting he’s going back to school. He’s sitting at the end of the bar giving Deran a nod when he exits the office. He’s asking him if he’s okay after Baz. He’s asking him if he’s okay. It’s him in the office and his lips and his bare skin glazed with sweat. It’s him in the loft and something they’d never put a label on. It’s him in the kitchen eating breakfast. 

There’s a bar. There’s a bar and too many memories. 

But there’s a bar. And there’s a lot of booze there. 

There’s a bar. There are books to keep. Employees to run. Floors to mop. A kitchen to keep clean. A bar to keep stocked. Inventory. Garbage duty. 

There’s a bar. And all the things that come with it. And the vodka goes down easy. And no one smells it on his breath. 

There’s too much. Too much to leave behind. If he left it now. 

There’s a house. Walk to work. Walk to surf. On the Strand. With a shower. And, ‘I love you’ in every drop of water. When the blood was off his hands but never off his conscience. 

There’s a house. With an empty parking spot in front of it. 

There’s a house. With too much. Too much. Too much him. Too much scent. Too much softness. Too much hope.

There’s a house with his things. His things. Everything in the house is his. Every single inch of this house is his smile and his laugh and his touch and later his lies and his fears and his admissions and your fears and your dreams shattering around you. And your hands covered in blood and desert dirt to keep him safe. And your admissions and your fears and your promises to keep him safe. And your promises to keep him out of prison. 

There’s a house. Full of lies. Full of terrifying truths.

And a grey Impala parked outside. Every morning. Every morning. Deran knew they’d keep an eye on him. After Adrian disappeared. After Deran told them he didn’t know where he went, he broke up with him, and he left. He hasn’t heard a word since.

There’s a grey Impala. Every day. So the jobs are off the table. He might be stupid and reckless and drunk more often than not but he’s not going to take the family down with him.

There’s anger. There’s anger on the tip of his tongue and in the back of his throat. Tingling in his fingers and racing through his forearms towards his shoulders. There’s anger and a lot of vodka. There are empty bottles all over the house. The house where the bed is empty because Deran doesn’t deserve to sleep in the comfort of Adrian’s scent that still lingers in the sheets. Deran doesn’t deserve to sleep in the only place he’s ever truly slept. Slept without the ghosting of her hands and the echoes of her whispers. 

There’s anger. Anger the rages beneath the surface. Anger that boils over. A sound like the whistling of a tea pot in his ears and the only outlet he can find. The house. Walk to work. Walk to surf. A shower. Bare fists and a crowbar. Broken glass. Shattered china. Cracked porcelain. Bloody knuckles. Bruised flesh. A broken hand. 

There’s blood. On a white t-shirt. On the floor. On his face. On his hands. Smeared on the red tiles of the fireplace. The fireplace he never did get the gas insert for. He never did that. Even though he dreamed of seeing Adrian’s face kissed by the dim glow of the soft flames. Reflected in his irises. It would be different. Different than the bonfires. It would be different. It would only be them. It would only be theirs. 

There’s metal in his mouth. And a nagging clawing ache in the back of his skull. There’s a hiss in his ears that won’t go away even though she’s dead.

There’s broken glass and his shell is broken now just like his insides. He drags himself out of the rubble, changes his clothes. A shirt. A simple green shirt. Or is it blue? It’s worn out. And it’s soft. It stinks like sweat and salt and sun and Adrian. And the tears come from somewhere deep inside that he didn’t know existed. They burn and they sting and they ache but they can’t make it go away.

There’s blood on his knuckles and broken bones in his hands and nothing but vodka and nicotine in his system with a blue shirt on his back and broken glass in his soles of his feet and a woman pounding on the door and screaming. She’s got wild hair and blood shot eyes. She’s screaming and her hands are fists. Pounding on his chest. Throwing curses and threats and hatred and tears. And her knees give out and his hands come up. Taking her elbows, not to stop her punches, only to stop her from falling. And it stings and it burns and it aches. There’s a child in the backseat of the car. His eyes are on Deran’s and there was a time they sat on the porch together and that kid was in Adrian’s arms and his smile was sincere and the kid didn’t make Deran’s skin crawl the way most kids do and maybe it was because there was something about him that made Deran think of Adrian. There’s a kid in the backseat of the car watching his mother fall apart in Deran’s grasp on the sidewalk in front of the house on the Strand. Walk to work. Walk to surf. And there’s a grey Impala. So when Deran whispers, “he’s alive. He’s safe,” into her ear, he makes sure his face is completely hidden against her. He makes sure it’s quiet, too quiet for any police issued listening equipment. He makes sure it’s muffled. Too muffled for anyone to read lips. Her threats and accusations turn to relief and confusion and anger and her fists are stilled against his chest where they’re sitting on the sidewalk in a complicated pile of human bones and flesh and emotion. 

It’s her tear-stains on his shirt, on his shirt, on Adrian’s shirt.

It’s her tear-stains next to the smears of his blood and Deran wonders how many times it’s been that way. Jess’s tears and Deran’s blood on Adrian’s shirt. 

—————

There’s too much to leave behind. If he left it all behind. There’s a trashed house. And a bar. A bar that Deran hasn’t set foot in for how many days? He’s unsure. There’s Craig. Craig who eyes the house when he shows up without announcing himself first. He eyes the house and he eyes Deran and he tells him with his hands on his shoulders and something like worry in his eyes, “you gotta take care of yourself bro,” and he starts picking shit up off the floor. 

There’s broken glass and broken china and broken porcelain tiles embedded in Deran’s feet and the palms of his hands. There’s a loaded gun in his right and a phone is his left. There’s a ringing. A ringing. A ringing that’s never answered.

There’s a bottle of vodka. And another. And another. The food in the fridge is spoiled. His clothes are dirty. He can’t remember the last time he left the house. The last time he changed his clothes. The last time he showered. That last time he consumed anything other than booze. 

There’s a fight. He thinks there’s a fight. When Pope shows up. When the electric bills haven’t been paid and the lights are off and the water’s off and it smells like rotten food and rotten human and he thinks there’s a fight. But he’s not sure. He thinks there’s a lot of words that exit his lips but he’s not sure. He thinks he puts up a fight when Pope tosses him over his shoulder and throws him in the truck. He thinks he puts up a fight when he drags him by the armpits into Smurf’s house and rips his clothes off. When he shoves him in the shower and turns the spray on. When the water is cold and then warm and then too hot and then Pope’s hand is on the faucet and it’s warm again. He thinks he puts up a fight when Pope’s hands are scraping at his scalp with shampoo and a washrag on his skin and the water is getting cold and his skin is goose-bumping and his head is spinning and he thinks he puts up a fight when Pope drags him out of the shower. When he towels him off. When he pushes him into his bed. His old bed. HIs old bed where the echoes of her words and the ghosts of her hands are in his ears and on his flesh and it zaps and buzzes and he’s certain he’s going to vomit. And he can’t stop shivering and he can’t stop puking. And he’s stopped fighting Pope’s hands. He’s stopped fighting Pope’s hands when they’re holding his hair back and then shoving him down on the bed, pulling the sheets up, tucking them under his armpits. He stops fighting them when they stroke through his hair. 

He remembers a time when he was a teenager and it was Craig. It was Craig who sat beside the bed when Deran was huddled into it and not moving. And everything ached and everything was dull and everything was nothing. And it was Craig who sat beside the bed and told him, ‘it’ll pass, bro’, while he played the Gameboy and smoked a joint. Then there was a time, a year or maybe two later when he was huddled into bed again trying to make the world disappear and trying to make her hands disappear and trying to make her voice disappear. There was a time it was Adrian. It was Adrian who sat on the edge of the bed behind his back and talked to him about surfing and talked to him about school and didn’t make him feel stupid or weak or useless or like the world was too much to hold at bay anymore. 

This time it’s Pope. It’s Pope sitting on a chair he dragged into the bedroom from the kitchen. It’s Pope with his back straight and his hands clasped in his lap and his eyes on Deran. And his voice right there but so far away, “Craig’s been taking care of the bar. J’s been taking care of the books.”

—————

There’s too much. There’s too much left behind if he leaves now. There’s Craig and Renn and a baby who isn’t really a baby anymore. Now that he’s walking and hasn’t ingested any coke yet and Renn hasn’t taken off yet and Craig hasn’t taken off yet. There’s Pope and J and the family business and the bar. There’s the house on the Strand, walk to work, walk to surf. A shower. His things. Adrian’s things.

And a phone call. Maybe a million of them. But he never answers. Deran always knew Adrian was the strong one. Always knew he was the strong one. But he didn’t think he was a full year stronger. A full year before the phone is answered. 

He doesn’t sound very strong. But Deran knows it’s only a moment, it’s only a moment of weakness in a life of strength. So he waits. And he breathes. And he says his name. 

—————

There’s too much to leave behind. When he leaves it behind. 

There’s a bar to run that Craig’s been running. That J’s been running. 

There’s a house on the Strand. Walk to work. Walk to surf. A shower. It’s clean. It’s full of things, things that can wait. 

There’s a family business to run. A family business that Pope’s taking care of. That Craig and J are taking care of. The scores are smaller. The jobs are smaller. They’re only a three man crew now. But they’re strong. 

There’s too much left. Too much left behind. 

But it can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pat me on the back - I have a plan for this. What? A plan? And actually most of it is written out already. Hopefully get to it by next week :)


	3. But A Worn Out Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not much left but a worn out pan.

But A Worn Out Pan

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

The Belize one cent coin has wavy edges. Twelve waves. Twelve like the hours on a clock. Twelve like the amount of minutes gone by since either one of them have made a sound.

The last sound made was grunt. A grunt that was somewhere between a choked cry and a pleasured groan. 

Queen Elizabeth The Second on one side. 1 in the center with Belize One Cent 1991 written around it on the other side. 

“A palindromic number,” he offers towards the ceiling after he eyes the coin in Adrian’s hand. Unable to meet Adrian’s gaze.

“That’t not worth my last cent,” flipping it off the tip of his thumb, catching it over his head and slapping it down on Deran’s bare chest. Still sweat glazed. His breath catches at the contact. Adrian draws his hand away but leaves the coin there.

“Is that some kind of tip?”

“It’s all I’ve got,” hands rising, arm’s folding, fingers clasping behind his head. Maybe if he stops looking at him, he’ll talk eventually. The tingles and zapping of pleasure slowly rolling across Adrian’s body, through every limb and down every nerve. Still. Lingering and releasing towards the man next to him. He’s still not talking, so Adrian sighs, “it’s okay, ya know?”

He doesn’t bother telling him that he won’t tell anyone. He won’t say a word to anyone. If Deran isn’t ready yet, if he’s not ready to come out, that’s okay. He doesn’t bother telling him that he’s known. For years. Since they were kids. He’s known that he loves him. 

He doesn’t bother telling him that. 

He can see the worry creased in his brow. Resting on his lips when they press together tightly. 

It’s different for everyone. It’s different. Being gay and being in love. They’re two people in the same place but they’re so different. And Adrian won’t force anything. He won’t force words or actions or a label. Not if Deran doesn’t want it. 

He remembers Deran under the pier one night. After he dropped out of school. He was under the pier. The rest of the class was around a bonfire. Getting high and drunk and making out. And fooling around. Night swimming. The guy’s name was Rob and he was a year older than Adrian. He was a good kisser. But that was all he was good at. Adrian left the party with thoughts, too many thoughts swirling in his head. The familiar shadow under the pier curled into himself with a wet butt and a hidden face, with blood crusted on his knuckles and tear-stains on his cheek. Adrian was too drunk and too high and too young and too stupid to know. To understand any of it. Deran’s silent brooding wasn’t anything new. But it felt heavier and it felt worse when his eyes finally met Adrian’s, when his face became visible and it was worse. It was worse. Broken skin and a broken jaw and an eye swollen shut. Adrian had shotgunned a joint with him. Maybe feeling the ballsy effects of the beer and the weed and the bonfire far behind him. Pressing his lips to Deran’s, passing a hit and lingering. He lingered there and Deran didn’t push him off. 

Deran huddled under the pier was nothing new. It was nothing old. It just was. Deran huddled under the pier with dirty hair and bruised knuckles and heavy clouds lingering overhead. Deran under the pier being sparked into desperation when the conversation turned to Rob. Rob and his good kissing but his bad sucking skills. Deran being sparked into some kind of madness to have Adrian’s everything in his mouth. So suddenly. His lips, his tongue, his neck, his dick. Adrian would never tease Deran over his oral fetish ever again after that night.

It had never gone this far though. Adrian had become accustomed to Deran’s oral attacks after a party. Never in the daylight. Never more than a desperate need to suck his dick and never allow Adrian to return the favor. Or touch him. Touch him more than just his mouth on his. He’d squirm under Adrian’s hands if he tried to touch him anywhere. 

But here. In Belize. Where the air is light. And the mood is easy. 

Here. After the rest of the group has gone home. Headed back to Oceanside. Here. In a rundown rental on the beach. Here. With Deran. Alone with Deran. Deran without the shackles of Oceanside. Without the weight of his family. 

Here with a One Cent lying in the center of his chest, still filmed in sweat. Moving up and down with every breath. Here, when his fingers finally rise, lifting the coin, running a finger over the wavy edge. Every wave and taking a deep breath, “I’ve never,” it trails off. Falters in the air between them. Adrian’s head turns, watching Deran’s lip quiver before it gets tucked into his teeth. Watching his hand fall over his eyes. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats. This time wrapping his arms around Deran. Sliding one under and one over. Melting into his side. Tucking his fingers around his bicep. Tracing circles and tapping the rhythm of his breath. A rhythm of his breathing that Deran can follow. That Deran can use to fight the rising panic or embarrassment or self-loathing. A pattern of breathing that he’d forget. He’d forget how to breathe if Adrian didn’t remind him. 

—————

The next time Adrian saw the Belize One Cent it was tucked against Deran’s alarm clock on his side table. The alarm clock that never faced the bed. The phone that was always face down. The lights that were always too much. The reminders that were always there so he’d know he was needed. He was needed there. By his family. By his business. By his life. He was needed in Oceanside. And Adrian? He’d never allow himself to need Deran. Not in the way the rest of his life needed him. 

—————

A box shows up in the mail. Looking like it’s been through about a hundred post offices between here and there. It’s not marked. Maybe it was carried in by a donkey and a currier. It’s beat up and it’s maybe been bouncing around in the mail for a year. 

Inside is a pair of board shorts and a memory, ‘well, they’re my favorite pair’. There’s a note pinned to them, ‘they’re very comfortable’ in Deran’s messy scrawl. A sting of tears needles into the back of Adrian’s eyes. He blinks it back. Underneath is an envelope. Inside is a title. A title to this place. It has Adrian’s name on it. There’s more clothes. None that have any specific memories attached. Clothes he’s not even certain if they’re his or if they’re Deran’s. There’s a new burner phone. 

The voice that answers isn’t the one he was expecting, “Adrian?” with tears of relief.

“Jess.”

—————

There’s a job. At a resort. Teaching tourists to surf. 

There’s a house. With some things in it. That make it feel more like a home. But it’s still too empty.

There’s a bed. A bed that’s too big. A bed where Adrian is never alone anymore. Never. His bed partner has long golden hair and big brown eyes. She always smiles. And her tail wags wildly when she pops up on a board with him. 

—————

There’s more phone calls. Sometimes there are words. Mostly there’s just breathing. And it’s okay. It’s okay to remember how to breathe together. 

—————

There’s another box. More clothes. A photo album. 

The tears that are spilled over the photos are nuzzled away by the golden dog, “happy tears, Grommet,” he reminds her, scratching her ears and flipping to the next page of his nephews, “hard to believe Charlie was that ugly once, huh?”

—————

There’s sun. But it doesn’t seem too hot anymore. It doesn’t seem too green. Or too blue. Nothing is too everything. And it feels okay. It’s not home. But it feels okay.

—————

There’s not much in the third box. But a worn out pan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't really understand how no extradition works in connection to the names. If Adrian would have to keep his fake name, or if he just had to use it to get out of the States. But I'm not going to bother making one up. So we can just pretend he only needed it for getting out.


	4. But A Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not much left, but a feeling.

But A Feeling

There are no good-byes. Maybe good-bye’s are cheap. Maybe if it means something, it’s gotta cost. 

There’s a bar being run by a guy who was a good dad the first time around. Even if he was still a kid himself. And he’s a good dad this time around. A really good dad. 

There’s a family business being run. By a guy who has never really needed someone to take care of him. Only someone to believe in him.

There’s a kid who isn’t much of a kid anymore. A kid who sold his laundromat and used his earnings to enroll in college. Maybe he’ll succeed, maybe he won’t.

There’s a house with all the echoes and all the ghosts. A house with a new family in it. Maybe they won’t hear her whispering in their ears at night.

There’s a house on the Strand. Walk to work. Walk to surf. For someone else. 

There’s a plane ticket. A bus ride. A cab ride. A short walk. 

There’s a house. With a high wooden fence. A stepping stone walk to a turquoise door. The yard is green. The sky is blue. The butterflies haven’t calmed in days. The pack is heavy on his shoulders. The sweat is beaded on his back. The heat is damp. The air is salty and sweet. 

His hand is shaking. His mouth is dry. 

Everything is dull around the edges but too bright in the center. When his hand rises and knocks. It knocks and nothing happens. The world doesn’t stop. The orchestra music doesn’t start. 

The door doesn’t open. 

But there’s a dog. A dog that appears out of nowhere over the rushing in Deran’s ears. A dog who stuffs her nose into his palm. And dances around with her tail wagging so hard her entire body is wagging with it. There’s a dog who is wet with ocean water. It’s slipping off her long golden coat and splattering on Deran’s shorts. 

There’s a dog who is very insistent on being pet. 

He feels a smile rise on his face when he kneels down. Sliding his pack off and propping it against the wall. Freeing his movement to give the wagging dog the scratching she’s waiting for. He feels a smile rise on his face that feels so foreign. 

“Hi buddy,” when she nudges her face into his, “hi,” fumbling for her collar, reading off the tag, “Grommet, huh?” she sits back, watching him for just a moment like she’s trying to assess his threat level. Her smile gives her away, “Grommet. Surprised it’s not Gorkin.”

“That was the second choice,” a voice. A voice that’s been in every instance of Deran’s memory since he was in preschool. Since he was in preschool telling him that his orange shirt was ugly. A voice that rises tingles that he hasn’t felt in two years. The tears that sting, the tears that threaten to rise, he swallows. Trying to steady himself before he stands, but it doesn’t work. As soon as his eyes land on those dark blue ones that have always held the only home Deran has ever known. A home that was never a house. It was never walk to work. Walk to surf. A home that was never on the Strand. A home that was never at Smurf’s house. Empty of love but full of things. 

A home. Not a structure. But a feeling.


	5. But It's More Than Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not much left but it's more than enough.

But It’s More Than Enough

It’s getting late. By the time Adrian gets off the water. Towel dries himself and watches Grommet shake herself dry. He’ll rinse the salt off her at home. In the outdoor shower. Next to the tub that’s never been used. 

She prances ahead of him on the walk home. Home. Walk to work. Walk to surf. A shower. A pink shirt. A burner phone. A big bed. A mostly empty kitchen. On the wall is a painting of a pineapple. Surrounding the painting are a bunch of snapshots of two little boys. Thumb-tacked to the drywall. Nephews that maybe he’ll never get to hold, touch, but every Sunday there’s a video chat. And every month there’s a new box of photos in the mail. 

The sun is sinking lower. The sky is still blue. The light is still reaching through the shade of the banana tree in the front yard. One tiny finger of sun reaching through the yard full of shade. Caressing a head of blond hair. 

Grommet, her guard dog instincts clearly kicked into high gear, is prancing around him with a wagging tail, attacking his hand with kisses. He turns and Adrian’s breath catches but Deran’s full focus is on the dog. Kneeling in front of her, giving himself to attacks of affection. 

There’s a feeling. A feeling like the world just got a whole lot smaller but the possibilities just got a whole lot bigger. A feeling like he can’t breathe and the only thing that can remind him how is a smile. A smile on a face, as the lips are moving, and the voice is light. 

“Surprised it’s not Gorkin.”

A voice, a voice that rises too much in Adrian’s chest and too much to the back of his eyes, but he’s steady when he responds, “that was the second choice,” and probably would have been the final choice if Deran had been here.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. His hands stay on Grommet and his eyes flicker over to Adrian. One moment, one breath of full-on blue so deep and so intense that he’s certain he’s drowning before Deran looks away again. Thumping Grommet’s side, getting to his feet. No words. Maybe there’s no such thing as any that will suffice. No words. But that’s nothing new between them. His hand rises, fingers sliding over his beard, through his hair that’s about chin-length still. Adrian’s favorite length. It’s mostly dirty but kinda clean. His fingers slide across his beard again, he rocks back on his heels, his mouth opens, Adrian interrupts, “we’re gonna rinse off. Head back to the resort for dinner. You hungry?”

A shrug, some glaze in his eyes that he blinks away, “I could eat.”

Adrian knows to start slow. To start small. Not ask him why he’s here, if he’s staying, if he thinks he can just be a part of Adrian’s life again. That easily. 

Tilting his head towards the door, “you can put your stuff inside. I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t drink anymore.”

“Yeah?” he shoves the door open, like he owns the joint, and technically he does, but he sweeps his hand to motion Adrian inside first. Because Adrian owns the joint, “I, uh, quit too. And smoking,” his cheeks are pink.

“Yeah?” it’s hard, nearly impossible to walk past him without touching him. Without smiling at him. Without kissing him.

“Yeah. Turns out I was a shitty drunk. And smoking makes your teeth yellow.”

“Oh does it?”

“Guess so,” there’s a half smile. A half. But it’s the beautiful half.

—————

He only eats in the dining hall when he’s feeling like drumming up business for the private lessons. But tonight he does anyway. He wants Deran to see this resort. Wants to see his reactions to the sounds and sights. He wants to go down to the beach after they eat and watch the waves roll in. He wants to avoid the nighttime. At home. Because he doesn’t know how to broach the subject and he doesn’t want to kick Deran out, but he doesn’t have a couch and he’s not ready to let him in his bed. 

Everything in his body feels light. It feels like something he can’t define and maybe he won’t define when he watches Deran, flesh and blood and color. Color that’s right. It’s not too much and it’s not too little. He looks healthy. Healthy in a way Adrian has never seen before on him. He looks like all those weights and all those undertows that have pushed and pulled and tugged on him since the day he was born are gone. They’re gone. And he’s just Deran. 

He’s just Deran with a plate of food and a glass of water and a dog that keeps nudging at his hand every time it drops to his side and Adrian needs to keep reminding her, “no begging,” and Deran keeps sneaking her pieces of veggies and meat when he thinks Adrian isn’t watching. Deran might have learned love through food and items, but he’s figuring out the whole affection thing pretty quickly with Grommet. Scratching her chin and her ears. Patting her shoulder every time he speaks and his nervous fidget can’t be stopped with a lit cig or an open beer. 

Maybe all Deran needed all this time was a dog. Adrian can’t help the smile that rises when Deran’s eyes fall on his from across the table. His expression is somewhere between a smile and grin. It steals Adrian’s breath and a memory on the tip of his tongue. A memory of Deran, the way he looked at him in Belize that one evening. In the glow of the sunset. The reflections of the embers on the beach. The feel of his hand on Adrian’s cheek, his thumb tracing his lips and a smile. A smile nearing a grin, falling into something so serious and so intense when he whispered, ‘you’re beautiful’, his lips interrupted Adrian’s response. Covering gently the place his thumb had just caressed. It was the only time, only time he spoke those words but he said them so many times in his eyes, the same place he always said all the important things. 

Nothing parts his lips. Adrian doesn’t expect it to. 

—————

Grommet is chasing the waves, biting at them as they crest the shore. The sun is long past the horizon. Sky faded to a muted Navy blue, stars beginning to twinkle lazily. 

Deran walking beside him. The feeling of him. The sound of his silence. The overwhelming urge to touch, the same urge Adrian has been fighting all evening. Deran won’t reach out first. Adrian knows that. He’s known it his whole life. The only time Deran ever reached first was the time it ended in a few thousand dollars worth of medical bills. 

Not yet. He can’t yet. 

—————

“I’d offer you the couch, but,” he shrugs, hands jammed in his pockets. Unsure of what to do. What to say now. He doesn’t need to say it, tell him he’s not welcome. At least not welcome in the bed. The bed that’s too big. 

His eyes don’t even bother scanning over in that direction, he just shrugs, “just need two trees. If that’s okay.”

“Are you asking to camp out in my yard?”

“Yeah,” his eyes, all the silence Adrian has ever needed, all the promises written in scrolls that he’s seen before and they’ve both broken before. Not this time. 

“Okay,” unable to stifle the amusement in his voice, “but it’s rainy season.”

“I’m not sweet enough to melt.”

“Understatement of the year.”

—————

There’s the smell of rain. The tingling in Adrian’s body. Knowing Deran is so close. He’s right outside the open door. Swinging in a hammock and watching the clouds roll in. 

Adrian’s not sure if he’s an asshole for leaving him out there. In the rain. Letting him weather the storm. Or maybe he’s testing him. He’s not really sure. What he knows is that he’s here. He’s this close. And right now, that’s all that matters. 

—————

There’s breakfast. Cooking. In the kitchen that’s never been used. The smell of it wafting across the breeze of the open windows that smell like rain. Twirling in the air of the ceiling fan and spinning more promises around the tiny house. 

Adrian hears himself groan. Feels Grommet stretching out alongside him. She’s damp. Like she walked to the store with Deran. For breakfast fixings, “traitor,” he whispers into her fur, dragging himself to seated on the edge of the bed. Tugging on a pair of shorts, ‘well they’re my favorite pair’, before he stands. There’s a pink shirt. Strewn over the pillow beside Adrian’s. He leaves it. Tugs on whatever is the next closest shirt instead.

“Breakfast?” it’s unimpressed, or it’s supposed to sound that way anyway, but it doesn’t. It sounds impressed, the opposite of what he was hoping would come out of his mouth.

“Hmm, looks that way.”

They still have this. They still have the years turning into a couple decade’s worth of teasing like friends. Yearning like lovers. And eating together like something he’s not going to label. 

—————

And they have this, “talked to a guy named Idris about a job at the bar,” filtering in through the open window from the hammock strung between a fence post and a porch support beam.

“Yeah?” the ceiling fan is spinning. The ceiling is vaulted. 

“Yeah. The kitchen had a hair code.”

“And?”

“I didn’t, uh, pass that test.”

He snorts a response. Amusement. Mostly. 

They still have this. And maybe it’s enough.

—————

He can’t stifle the laugh when he sees Deran’s work outfit. He’s not sure Deran can work for someone else. 

Deran can’t stifle the blush. Or the middle finger that rises over his shoulder as he huffs his way down the cobblestones and disappears through the gate. Scratching Grommet’s head, his hand the last thing Adrian sees before the gate gets shut.

They still have this. Still.

—————

Admittedly, Deran without all his bad habits, is annoying. He’s just picked up a bunch of irritating habits that aren’t really irritating at all. Reminding Adrian at all hours of the day and night that he’s not alone. Whistling. Drumming on any surface and every surface. Swinging. The hammock swings. It swings like a damn child on a playground. It swings while he whistles and watches the stars. It swings and the way the rope rubs along the porch, Adrian is certain he wants to be there when the thing gets severed and sends Deran splashing into the pool. 

Deran without his cigs and his beer and his bar and his cons and he heists, and, “surfing,” Adrian hollers over the sound of his whistling, through the open door and the swinging of the hammock, “we’re going surfing tomorrow.”

“Isn’t it your day off?”

“Yeah. There’s a good spot to ride a few miles down. No tourists. Better swells. And technically it’s your day off too,” though he’s been MIA every time they have a day off together. Adrian’s not sure where he’s been going, but he is sure that he’s avoiding all the spoken conversations that eye contact and unrestrained smiles can’t replace no matter how hard they try. 

——————

It’s natural. Surfing together. Even with the addition of Grommet who’ll catch waves with anyone who lets her. Including Deran, the traitor that she is. It makes Adrian’s heart lurch when he eyes the two of them bobbing together. Waiting for the right wave. Watching the incoming surf, Deran’s lips moving quietly. Talking to the dog. Deran is having a full-blown conversation with a dog. He can only imagine the shit he’d catch from his brothers if they could see this. 

Deran without his family. Without his bad habits. Without the shackles of his old life. Deran without all those things is just Deran. Deran who is figuring out how to chill. Truly chill instead of that faulty mask of calm he always used to wear. HIs eyes were always the liar in the equation. He could do whatever he wanted to keep his face uninterested and his body language relaxed, but he could never hide the flashes in those blues. And now those blues flash calm. So often it’s become the norm. 

Deran without his bloody knuckles and bruised face. Deran without his heavy grey cloud is so godawful beautiful that it’s like looking at the sun. Too bright and too brilliant. Making Adrian blind to anything other than having his lips against Deran’s. Now. Yesterday. Six weeks ago when he first showed up with a pack and a million silent apologies for shit that wasn’t even his fault.

“What?” he wants to know, when Adrian’s staring becomes way too damn much. 

A smile creeping into the corners of Adrian’s mouth when his fingers crawl over to Deran’s board, pulling him in closer, close enough that he can reach out. He can reach out, take his chin in his grasp. Eying his lips that he’s felt on every inch of skin but never enough. There was never enough. There probably never will be. Those lips that have become so foreign on his flesh but familiar in every single memory. Those lips that are set in uncertainty right now. Adrian intends on wiping that away. 

Keeping it slow, just lips. Just the feel of his warm, soft lips and the tickle of his beard along the edges. Just slow. Just for now. Just like this.

Just like this with a little tongue. Just a little tongue passing Adrian’s lips and sliding along Deran’s lower lip. Just this, that’s all. Just this with a little more tongue when Deran’s responds by caressing Adrian’s upper lip. 

Just like this. Just slow. Just lips. And just a little tongue. Just a little more tongue. When Adrian’s chases Deran’s before it can retreat beyond his lips. Just like this though. He’s not going to reacquaint himself with the inside of Deran’s mouth. Just a tender meeting at the middle. That’s all. And a hand. Just one hand, sliding up Deran’s neck, cupping his jaw and feeling the way it moves under his beard as he works over lips with his own. That’s all.

Just like this. Just lips. Just a little tongue. Just a little more tongue. Just one hand. Just a second hand when Deran’s rises, landing on Adrian’s shoulder, trailing down his arm, coming to rest in the crook of his elbow. But that’s all. 

That’s all. And tingles ripping down Adrian’s spine when Deran’s other hand finds his knee in the water between them. Anchoring him against the next wave that he’s stopped paying attention to. A tsunami could be coming in and Adrian would have no reaction to it at this point. Deran’s lips, his tongue, his hands. His everything. The water is plenty warm, the air is heavy with heat and humidity but goose-bumps are racing for space on every freckle on his body. 

It’s never been like this before and Adrian’s not certain if he’s trying to turn to liquid and slide down Deran’s throat or simply climb onto his board, but he’s certain if he doesn’t pull away immediately he’ll have an un-concealable issue in his board shorts. Or Deran’s board shorts. Whoever the hell they belong to now. They’re comfortable. That’s what they are.

There’s a gasp that exits his mouth and a hand that clamps down tighter on his thigh but it’s too late. Grommet is the tipping point. Leaping from Deran’s board to Adrian’s and overturning Deran’s board in the process. Adrian has just enough wit left to keep himself righted, but he can’t control the laughing that echoes out around them in the cove, bounding off the water and falling around Deran’s ears when he resurfaces, spouting a stream of water out of his mouth through a grin. 

There’s still that. And that’s a lot. That’s plenty.

——————

It’s Grommet, that traitor, that takes pity on Deran first. During a rainstorm. A rainstorm that Adrian didn’t even wake up for. He only stirs when her weight leaves the bed. The sound of rain and thunder slowly finding it’s way into his still mostly asleep head. Blinking it away when he remembers where he is and where Deran is when the sky lights up in a bright trail of lightning and the rain starts coming down in a deluge. 

The next string of lightning proves that Grommet is climbing into the hammock, lying down overtop of Deran to shield him from the rain. He’s not sure which one of them is more pathetic when he watches Deran’s arms wrap around the dog and a strange pang of jealousy cuts through Adrian, watching the dog settle on the body that used to belong to Adrian. For a short time. A short time when they had that little slice of comfort in each other’s embrace. For that short time between lies and hurts and running away. 

“Just come to bed,” he hears himself, barely audible over the smacking of the rain.

Uncertain if Deran has even heard him when there’s no response. No response for so long that Adrian starts to get out of bed, but, “who? Me or her?” 

“Shut up asshole,” with a snicker, tugging the sheet back up to his shoulders when he falls on his side. On his right side. On Deran’s right side, “dry off first.”

“You hear that Grom? You need to dry off before you get back in bed,” the sound of him thumping her side gently. 

Adrian’s heart has taken up residence in his throat by the time he feels Deran’s weight on the bed beside him. Beside him but so far away. There’s a sigh, a shift, a clear give away that he’s staring at the back of Adrian’s head. He nearly expects to hear it, faltering out of his lips and swaying in the damp breeze of the ceiling fan, ‘you’re the only thrill I’ve ever had,’ but it’s left unspoken. Told by the prickles of goosebumps dusting Adrian’s flesh under the heat of Deran’s gaze. Spoken by the next heavy sigh and the next shift in weight. This time he’s turned to watch the ceiling. Knowing without Adrian saying a word that it’s not time yet. It’s not time yet to touch. And that’s okay.

They still have this. And this is a lot. Maybe it’s enough.

—————

There’s this. One day, there’s this, “I should have told you,” across the dinner table, in the dying light of day, “about smuggling drugs. Right away. If I could go back now,” a sigh, eye contact lingering, “I just, it was like I was carrying both of our dreams, ya know? And it was too much pressure. And I didn’t want you to apologize anymore. That was true. I didn’t want your money as an apology. It was too much like Smurf even if it wasn’t her jobs behind it.”

Adrian’s always known more about Smurf than Deran wants him to. But Adrian’s been Deran’s only friend since preschool. Of course he knows, he knows it all. He knows all the ways she used and abused her sons. And all the times she apologized with cash. Or with food. All the times she baited with affection and pretended to love. To love them. 

That woman was never capable of love. 

Adrian’s not sure where Deran came from. How he managed to maintain some humanity through all that. 

But he has. 

And he’s nodding, quietly urging Adrian to continue. Without interruption. Without argument. He’s simply waiting. His eyes are staying focused on Adrian’s, his hand has found Grommet’s head on his thigh, but he’s calm. And composed. And they’re about to have a real, adult conversation. Without any finger pointing. 

Deep breath, “I know that I ended up hurting you. More than I ever intended. And it wasn’t some premeditated revenge plan or anything. I just, I didn’t set out to hurt you, even though I was lying to you. After you were finally, you were,” his brain can’t find the right words to settle on, maybe there are none, “closer to happy,” tears are stinging at the back of his eyes but he won’t let them fall, he won’t let them spill over, “you were something like that kid on the board. Riding the monster waves that no one in their right mind would ever ride. But you were always so damn peaceful out there. And you were finally something closer to that again. You were almost your own. And maybe I was scared, I was the one who was scared. Thinking that the kid on the board was resting all his dreams on my shoulders, and I just wasn’t strong enough.”

That tear that he wouldn’t free is rolling down his cheek now. He’s letting it. Deran’s gaze is following it.

“And I thought that, maybe, if I could figure out a way to split the bill, ya know, if I could at least pay for my half of the dreams,” his voice shakes, “then maybe it wouldn’t be so devastating when I couldn’t make it half as far as you would have,” his hand rises, about to wipe the tears off his cheeks but it’s stopped midair. Squeezed tight and steered back down to the table. 

Deran’s free hand slowly reaching across the space between them, sliding over both cheeks, a gentle hold on his chin, making sure he keeps his gaze, eyes reading all the possibilities of every word ever spoken and unspoken between them, “I would have been proud of you no matter what happened. Even if you never rode a single wave,” his eyes are twinkling, his smile is soft, “I hope you know that.”

“Jesus D, that just makes it worse,” but his lips are tugged upwards like they want to smile before a flood releases from his eyes. 

“Alright, enough of that,” it’s playful, the kind of playful Adrian has been seeing lately. The kind that was missing for so damn long. He untangles his hand from Deran’s, hiding his face with both of them. Feeling Grommet’s chin landing on his thigh and Deran’s arms wrapping around him. Tugging gently until he gets to this feet and allows the embrace. Burying his face in Deran’s chest immediately, taking note of the complete lack of tension in his body at the contact and the show of emotion. 

Holding tightly, hands rubbing up and down Adrian’s back. Face turning, a deep breath of his hair, lips against his head, “I’m proud of you now too, ya know?”

“Yeah,” it breaks and his arms clamp down tighter around Deran’s back. 

There’s that. And that’s okay. That’s a start. 

—————

Then there’s a guy lying eerily still in his hammock at night. Thinking so hard that Adrian can smell the smoke coming out of his ears. 

He only spent the one night in bed. Waiting for the real invitation. Adrian’s not sure he’s ready to give it. But he’s getting closer. Wanting it to happen sometime when it’s not about weather. Or neediness. Or desperation. Waiting for a time when it just is. 

There’s this.

“I killed Colby.”

“What?”

“He, um, well I got Ox killed. It was, I did a job with them. After Baz died and I just,” it falls away, the hammock moves but it’s not for swinging. It’s for a hand over his face, scrubbing the full length of it and landing in his beard, “I thought it’d be easy scores. Have my own crew, only do jobs I planned and I was comfortable with. They’d be smaller, I’d be closer to an honest law-abiding guy but it’d be quicker to pay off the bar. It was just for that, it was just, it seemed easier. Shit.”

Adrian waits. His stomach has fallen to his ass, his mouth has gone dry. But he’s not going to freak out. He’s not a killer. Deran is not just a cold-blooded killer. He’s not. Deran is a lot of things. A lot of things that Smurf raised him to be. A lot of things that he’s spent his life trying not to be while she forced it on him. But a killer? No. No way.

“Then Colby just wouldn’t stop. I didn’t have any more jobs. I told him there’d be more but I didn’t say it was going to be a steady thing. And he wanted a steady thing. So I gave him a job, told him to wait, we’d scope it out together. He didn’t wait. Ox got shot. We did what we could and sent him to a doctor in Mexico. He didn’t make it. And Colby, he just,” frustration is rising in his voice. He pauses. Takes a deep breath. 

Adrian wishes he could see his face. They’ve been so good at maintaining eye contact, something they used to be so bad at for so long. Jesus. He’s out in the dark in a hammock under the stars and he’s so fucking gorgeous, but he’s such a fucking mess and he’ll never stop being a mess, will he?

“Colby came to me after Jack got busted. He knew. Somehow he knew. That you were,” it chokes off, Adrian is certain his fist is clenched, “he knew that you were talking to the cops. And he, Jesus. I would have just paid him and he would have just left me alone for a few months and then come back for more money and that was fine. I made my mistakes and I trusted him when I shouldn’t have and that was on me. So if I had to pull extra jobs to pay him some kind of fucking hush money every few months it was fine. But he had to go saying your name. He had to drag you into it. And I, I just, I didn’t know how else to shut him up,” his voice is high on the side of panic and Adrian’s stomach is so twisted he doesn’t know what’s up and what’s down. 

He has no idea what Deran needs from him and he has no idea what to think. He has no idea how he’s supposed to react but if he doesn’t say something, do something, anything, then Deran will run. Deran has always been the runner. If he can’t beat his problems into submission then he’ll run from them. 

There’s a gasp. A gasp that’s a telltale sign Deran is crying. Adrian has never hated anything more than when Deran cries. And he can count on one hand the amount of times he’s been the one who caused it and every single time before this one he’s taken the knife that’s already in Deran’s chest and only twisted it. 

‘You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me’. It’s twisting around Adrian’s wind pipe and making it impossible to speak.

‘You can’t make me feel something I don’t’. He has to move. 

‘What would Smurf do with a son that didn’t want to screw her?’. He has to move or Deran will run. 

Every step feels like it takes twenty minutes. Every breath is short and desperate. And every thought is so jumbled that he can’t make sense of any of it. Any of it. 

He can’t make sense of it. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to. But he can make sense of this. Touch. Affection. The gentle love that Deran was always silently seeking and never able to ask for. Never able to figure out how to get. Never able to understand that Adrian was willing to give it without making him ask. Without making him pay for it. 

He can’t make sense of any of this. And he wishes the skeletons could just stay in the fucking closet but that’s not what they’re doing this time around. They are talking. They are being honest to a fucking fault and if that means this, if that means confession of murdering someone to keep Adrian’s name off his lips, then it means this. It means that even if Adrian has no fucking clue what to say, he knows exactly what to do. 

As long as the hammock doesn’t give out under their combined body weight. Though, if it did, it would certainly break the heaviness in the air. Prying Deran’s hand off his face would take the jaws of life, so Adrian doesn’t even attempt it. He just very carefully, and only a little awkwardly settles himself over Deran. Head landing on his heart, legs tangled, arms sliding under him. Locking into place like the puzzle piece that’s been missing for years, the feel of his body completing the picture that Adrian always wanted for his life. Even if it’s fucked up and it’s here instead of there. And they had to go through a whole lot of hell to get to it, it’s complete now. And, “I love you Deran. I always will. But I never attended seminary so I’m not sure if it’s a hundred Hail Mary’s and fifty Our Fathers or vice versa for murder.”

The snort is laced with every human emotion possible, the last part being indignation, “I’m pretty sure it’s a one-way ticket to Hell.”

“I’d hate burning for eternity without you anyway.”

His hands are wiping now, roughly chasing the tears across his cheeks, through his beard and a feeling of letting go is swirling in the air around them. His hand drops, lands on Adrian’s bare shoulder, “Heaven would probably be pretty boring anyway.”

“Yeah. All those angels and clouds and shit. Who the hell needs harp music?”

A choked-off cry somewhere between guilt and relief, and a whisper so quiet Adrian barely hears it, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Deran,” it’s more a sigh than anything else, lifting his head now that he knows he’ll be able to look into those tear-shot eyes, glistening in the moon and stars, “you are a product of your raising,” one hand slides out from behind him and across his cheek, thumb resting on his jaw, fingers behind his ear, “you have done so much to get away from that, but that doesn’t mean it’ll disappear forever, it just,” hand sliding through his hair, “sometimes it’s more complicated than ‘thou shalt not kill’. I mean, really there’s probably something in the bible about minding your mother. So there’s that. And of course the whole being gay thing that’ll send you to Hell anyway. So maybe killing someone is just a half eternity in purgatory or something.”

His face keeps screwing up more the longer Adrain talks, but if the twinkles on his irises have anything to say about it, then he’s pretty well convinced. Or distracted anyway. That guilt he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life. Adrian can’t change that. But at least if the guilt is there, then he knows it was wrong. He’s not a cold-blooded killer. He never will be.

“So you’re not…”

“Going to kick you out for killing over me?”

“That’s not…”

“Stop loving you for doing something stupid to protect me?”

“No, I…”

“Shut the hell up,” distraction is good. Distraction is lips and tongues. Distraction is hands on flesh and grinding pelvises. Distraction is tasting each other and feeling each other and letting themselves get closer than they’ve been in years. Distraction is good. 

Distraction is so good it ends up in sticky shorts and an exit from the hammock that is much less graceful than the entrance. Distraction ends up with a splash in the pool that they barely use. Distraction ends in a swim and Adrian’s back against the ledge with Deran between his legs and on his lips. 

Distraction ends with both of them tumbling into bed, still mostly wet and chlorinated, still zapping with the electric feeling of being near and being alive and knowing. Knowing. Knowing just how far Deran would go to protect Adrian for as long as he possibly could. Knowing just how heavy that will weigh on him for the rest of his life. And knowing, knowing it won’t break them. It might be fucked up, and twisted and a situation that was out of their control and something they can point a million fingers in a million directions because nothing like that is ever black or white. But they both know now. Knowing is something. And something is enough.

—————

There’s waking up with Grommet crammed between them and Deran’s hand on Adrian’s shoulder. There’s waking up listening for a long time to memorize the pattern of Deran’s sleep breathing. A breathing Adrian hasn’t heard in so long, maybe since Belize. Deran never slept. He never slept in Oceanside. Always awake long after Adrian and long before him. 

Weight has been lifted. 

Adrian tries unsuccessfully to roll, facing him, without waking him. Those gorgeous blue eyes darting open as soon as Adrian’s gaze lands on his face, “just me,” some sort of instinct. His hand finding it’s way overtop of Grommet, who groans and stretches, to land in Deran’s hair as his eyes start a lazy blink. 

There’s that. There’s waking up next to the man he’s loved since they were kids. And that’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

There’s not much left. But it’s more than enough.


	6. But A Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not much left, but a future.

But A Future

There’s a job. A job at a bar that becomes a manager position soon enough. Dealing with the behind the scenes things has always been Deran’s stronger suit anyway. Dealing with the books like a businessman with a legitimate business would. Inventory, cleaning, scheduling. Handling shit when shit comes up. There’s something weird. People like Deran. For the first time in his life he doesn’t have to fight for his place in this world. He doesn’t have to worry if the people around him respect him. Or appreciate him. He just knows that they do.

There’s a job at a bar on the beach. The beach where he can take his breaks at the same time as his boyfriend. His boyfriend who has a job teaching tourists how to surf. A boyfriend who smiles. And wears so much sunscreen it’s like a permanent layer over his freckles and beautiful skin. A boyfriend who takes his breaks at the same time to catch a few waves together because no matter what happens in their life at any given time, they will always have this. 

There’s a boyfriend who holds Deran’s hand when they walk to and from work together. There’s a boyfriend who fits so easily into Deran’s embrace that it’s like the connection was never lost. 

There are days that turn into weeks that turn into months. And a night under a silvery moon. A night where the kisses mean something more, so much more. A night where the groping leads to the bed. The bed where Deran has only slept when he has permission. The bed where sometimes he wakes with his nose against Adrian’s spine and a thrill racing through his veins. A thrill he’s never felt anywhere else.

A night under a sliver of a moon. On a bed that’s too comfortable. Under a vaulted ceiling and spinning fan. With the damp heat encasing them and rising sweat on their skin. With kisses that are more. So much more than they’ve ever been. 

There’s a whisper against an open mouth. A hand finding auburn hair and trailing through it. There are legs around his hips that have always belonged there. Hands resting on his shoulder and his lower back. Eyes that are a wishing well that Deran will always be throwing pennies into and hoping for the best, hoping for all the things they’ve never had before, and they would never have if they’d stayed in Oceanside. Wishing for this, for this whisper against his mouth when he leans away from the kiss; wishing for this, this warmth and love around him and through him; wishing for this, this openness to each other and for each other; wishing for this, “will you marry me?” for the rest of their lives. 

And there’s this, a surprised spark flickering on the surface of that wishing well. An inhale and an exhale, “yeah.”

“You sure?” because Deran’s sure. He’s sure he’s going to choke to death on that question if the answer is no. Or if he’s putting too much pressure on and Adrian’s not sure. Or if he’s asking too soon or maybe he’s not been through every skeleton in the closet yet and there’s still something in there that will scare Adrian off, and he’s not apologized enough and this has all been just Adrian bending to his will and his wants and his needs and his wishes on the copper pennies he’s dropped in the well since they were kids. 

“Of course I am,” a hand rising, stroking from the top of Deran’s head to the back of his neck. There is no snake anymore. Lying alongside his spine. Twisting his skin and hissing in his ears. There is no snake. Only Adrian’s hands. Only the deep blue depth of all those wishes. And another, “yes Deran. I’ll marry you. I’m sure of it. Of all the things in this life, the only thing I’ve ever been sure of is you,” with a smile. A smile that draws the breath from Deran’s lungs and douses every single spark of panic, forces the tide of worry and regret to ebb.

“I’m sorry,” it exits, maybe a reflex. Or maybe for all the years of heartache. Or maybe for all the times he didn’t listen to the things that were plain as day, standing right in front of him with nothing but love and patience. Waiting. He was always waiting. 

“No,” hands grasping gently to Deran’s face, willing his eyes to linger, to stay, to keep staring into that well and understand that they were never wishes, they were never wishes, they were only the reality he could have if he was man enough to take it, “no more sorries,” thumbs like windshield wipers on his cheeks, sliding off the tears he didn’t know were falling, “promise?”

A breath he didn’t know he was holding exiting in a stupid laugh because there’s too much tension and too much seriousness and there’s one more apology, “even if I broke the fin off your board this afternoon?” a surge of overwhelming emotions boiling over, his head dropping into Adrian’s neck.

A hand tracing down, trailing Deran’s arm until he can dig his hand out from beneath the pillow, squeezing tight, “well, that’s different. You should apologize for that. And you owe me a new board.”

“And you owe me a new pair of board shorts.”

“You’re the one who sent them in the mail.”

“Yeah, so they’d be here when I got here.”

“Oh sure, I see how it is,” free hand stroking through Deran’s hair. A sigh against his temple, his body warm and right, the way it’s always been. The kiss he leaves is tender, nudging with his face to get Deran out of the hiding spot he’s found and wants to stay in for the rest of the night. He complies to the silent request, catching his gaze and keeping it, “I love you. And I was wrong, you know, when I said you’re the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“Hey, no, if I can’t apologize anymore then you can’t either.”

His eyes water, “okay,” lips pressing together in attempt to stifle the rest of the tears, but, “turns out, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. We just always sucked at timing.”

Leaning forward, pressing a soft kiss against his forehead, “not anymore. Right?”

“Right,” it hitches. Deran’s always hated the vision of those eyes welled in tears. But tonight, they feel different.

He brushes them away with sweeping kisses anyway, “I love you too.”

“Good,” smile tugging his soft lips through the salty streaks of tears.

—————

May we get what we want but never what we deserve.

Deran’s not sure if he deserves this. If he’s worked hard enough for this. For this moment. For this man. Standing under the shade of the palm trees that line the beach. An orchid tucked in the pocket of his white dress shirt. Sleeves rolled up, shorts that aren’t board shorts, and an idiotic smile on his face. An idiotic smile attempting to keep the tears at bay. 

Deran’s not sure if he deserves this. If he’s worked hard enough for this. These vows, this hand in his, this smile. Tear-laced smile that he’s the target of and it makes a weird thing happen in his throat, and it makes a knot untie itself in his chest, and it suddenly makes every single thing they’ve been through together seem so right. 

Sand under his bare feet. Ocean rolling slowly beside them. The heat that isn’t too wet anymore. The sun that isn’t too bright. The air that’s just right. The feeling that’s just right.

Their family can’t be here. And that’s okay. It’s a choice. Life has always been about choices. Some good. Some bad. Some made by poor influences. But every single choice leading up to this one is what got them here. Here. Where this choice, “I will,” is the right choice. The only choice that matters. The only one that ever mattered. And that’s okay. That’s more than okay.

Untying the rings from Grommet’s collar, exchanging them with steady hands. 

A deep breath and a kiss. There’s not much to it. It’s something they’ve been doing for over half their lives. There’s not much to it. It’s only the first one for the rest of their lives. Together. The way it always should have been. They took the long way to get here. And here was never the destination in mind. But there’s not much left of that old life anymore. There are phone calls home. There a video chats. There are letters and photos. There’s not much left. But some memories. Some love that will never change. Some bonds that will never change. 

There’s not much left of that old life anymore. But that’s okay. 

He’s smiling when the kiss ends. He’s smiling and Deran’s heart is resting squarely on his windpipe and he hears himself whisper, “you’re beautiful,” even though the officiant is introducing them as the married couple. And they’re supposed to be turning around and walking back across the beach, through the crowd of coworkers and new friends and whoever the hell wanted to just come down from the resort to witness a wedding, So maybe their family isn’t here, they’re on the other side of a video screen. And maybe that doesn’t matter. Deran’s certain that doesn’t matter. No part of that matters. Not the faces in the crowd, not the smiles on the other side of the video chat, not the joyful shout that can only have been emitted from one of their nephews. No part of that matters. What matters is this, this part. Where Adrian’s hand is in his. And he can’t pull his eyes off him to save his damn life. And he’s his husband now. Forever. And he’s supposed to be walking back down the aisle all smiles and cheers, and Adrian’s hand is giving his a tender squeeze to urge him to get moving. Or something, but he can’t. He can’t let this moment end. 

This moment. This first moment for the rest of their lives. This first moment after a million firsts. With a million more to come. It all seems so big. So much bigger than anything he’s ever done before. Every single thrill he’s ever had jumping out of planes with bags of cash, diving off a crane, leaping off the pier, surfing the monster waves that everyone else is afraid of, every single stupid thing he’s ever done in his life cannot hold a candle to the overwhelming feel of his husband’s hand in his. 

Adrian’s free hand rises, the hand with the new wedding band on it. It rises, cups Deran’s cheek, thumb sliding across a tear trail that he didn’t realize was there, “hey,” it’s a simple whisper, a tender smile, a wishing well full of wishes that are all coming true. And he knows it all. Adrian has always known it all. Every single tangled thought in Deran’s head, every single hissed whisper from that old snake, every single tingle of thrill, and every single pattern of his still beating heart while it throws itself desperately as his ribs. As though it’s trying to jump through his chest and truly hand itself over to Adrian.

And he knows that simple word with simple intentions is enough to get Deran’s body to thaw. Enough to get his heart to calm and his breath to enter his lungs when he didn’t even realize it wasn’t. It exits, along with, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” quiet, calm. It’s easy. It’s a thrill. The only thrill Deran has ever had. 

There’s a smile. It’s rising on Deran’s face. And it’s mirrored on Adrian’s. His husband.

There’s another kiss. Even if they’re supposed to be walking back down the beach now. It doesn’t matter. A whoop and a whistle from the screen that he knows came from Craig. It starts an echo of hoots, hollers, and cheers throughout the crowd until Grommet’s had enough, interrupting the kiss by jumping up to nose her way into their faces.

So there’s this. A wedding on a beach. A lingering kiss. A husband. A home. A home that is built off of love. And trust. A home that is just a little place with a big bed, a tub they spend a strange amount of time in together, a pool where they float sometimes in the evening to watch the stars twinkling lazily in the sky, a kitchen full of worn out pans, a hammock in the yard that they’ve spent a lot of lazy afternoons in, a dog who has taken a strange liking to some worn out pink shirt that Deran is pretty sure was a hand-me-down from Craig at some point. He’s not even sure how it ended up here. 

So there’s this. A home. A real one. Walk to work. Walk to surf. A shower. 

A smile. Smiles that are never restrained anymore. Smiles that are abundant. Laughs that echo around the yard with the high fence and the banana trees. 

There’s love. So much goddamn love it’s disgusting.

There’s happiness. True happiness.

And there’s a man. The most incredible man Deran has ever known. A man who Deran is certain he doesn’t deserve. But he’s getting there.

There’s not much left. Of that old life. Of the past hurts. Of the buried secrets.

There’s not much left. But a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, that felt good. It's official I vote endgame for these two :)
> 
> Snip, snap, snout this tale is told out. If you came, you read, and you're here then tap that little kudos button at the bottom of your screen or feel free to say hello if you wish. You won't find me on social media but feel free to share it if you deem worthy. Or wipe your ass with it, whatever floats your boat, just don't bother with negative comments because no one has time for that shit... 
> 
> Thanks friends, I hope to see you again!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated!


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